

^3 









^ 



SUNSET 



-A~ PLAY I TsT THREE ACTS 



/ 



BEZRIST.AJRID H- ISr^.ID^.L. 



COPYRIGHT SECURED BY BERNARD II. NADAL. 
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. 




NEW YORK: 

John Polhbmus, Printer and Mf'g Stationer, 102 Nassau Street. 

1883. 



SUNSET. 



■A. IPL^lY IN THREE ACTS 



BY 



BEi^nsr^_RiD n. nsr^.iD.A.L. 



COPYRIGHT SECURED BY BERNARD II. NADAL. 

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. 




NEW YORK: 
John P0LHEXU8, Printer and Mf'g Stationer, 102 Nassau Street. 

188 3. 



vv x • 



DRAMATIS PERSONS. 



COLONEL FLINT, Collector of External Revenue in the District of 
Chicopee Falls on Hudson and Anti-Centralization Candidate for 
Governor of New York. 

AUGUSTUS BABB, Brother-in-law to and Chief Clerk under Col. Flint. 

EVERT SCHUYLER, Confidential Clerk to Col. Flint. 

ARTHUR CARRINGTON, - Clerk in Col. Flint's Office. 

McCORKLE, - - Agent of Treasury Department. 

GEN. KETCHUM, ... - 

HON. JEFFERSON FROTHING HAM, - Stump Speaker. 

RODNEY, - .... A Broker. 

DANIEL, Colored Boy, Servant and Protege of Col. Flint. 

HELEN FLINT, - - - Col. Flint's Daughter. 

VALERIA BABB, - - - Sister of Augustus Babb. 



Action goes on sometime between 18711 and 1880. 



SUNSET. 



ACT I. 

Scene I. — Drawing room. — Colonel Flint's residence at Chicopee 
Falls on the Hudson. — Time, Morning. — Negro boy Daniel dis- 
covered slightly hid behind furniture. — Chair tilted against 
wall. — Book in hand, studying. — Munching Cake. 

Daniel. The ox was in the field. Oh, ah ! ( Gapes, gets up, 
shujfles and sits down.) The sun is up. Oh, ah ! 

Miss Valeria. (Enters.) Oh, that boy will be the death of me 
yet. I wish the Colonel wouldn't indulge his philanthi'opioal 
notions at my expense. I do nothing but talk from morning till 
night. (Seeing him.) Well, I declare ! (DanH hides cake.) Of 
all the impudent things you ever did, this is the worst. How dare 
you sit down in the parlor ? 

Daniel. (Getting sloioly up.) I'm a studyin. 

Miss V. Studying ! What made you leave the kitchen when 
I was talking to you ? 

DanH. How could I leave when you was'nt a talkin V 

Mm V. What ! • 

DanH. There's too much fuss down there for me. 

Miss V. Oh, I'll make you pay for this impudence. There ; 
don't jou hear the bell ring. Go to the door. (DanH yawns 
sleepily.) Go, I say. 

DanU. All right, I'm a goin. 

Miss V. Not that way. This is the nearest. 

DarCl. I was goin this way. 

Miss V. But I tell you to go this way. 

DanH. But I'm started this way. 

Miss V. Do you hear me ? Come back this minute. 

DanH. What for ? What's the odds ? (Backs <>"t his own 
way.) 

Miss V. (Alone.) That boy will set ra« crazy yet. I've a 
great mind to ask the Colonel to discharge him this instant. But, 
no. lie doesn't like to be crossed in anything he undertakes. 
The Colonel thinks he's educating the black imp. (Exit.)- 

Evart Schuyler. (Enters.) I hope the Colonel wont keep me 
waiting. If there's anything I hate, it is to be kept waiting for 



4 SUNSET. 

another man's convenience. I don't cave who he is. Ah, there's 
the Colonel now looking exactly as if he were going to pounce 
on some one. But like all heavy projectiles he has a readily 
calculated orbit. When you know that it is easy to avoid him. I 
take off my hat to the future Governor of the State of New 
York. (To the picture.) What a fancy the old man has taken 
to me. It shows the value of tact. ( Crosses to (/lass.) As the 
son-in-law and private secretary to a Governor I think I shall do 
very well. (J3otos, strikes an attitude, puts on, his hat, takes it 
off, cite.) Perhaps I now low to a future Governor. 

Dartl. (Enters.) Ha! ha! ha! ha! 

Evart. ( Whirls around.) What the old Harry are you laugh- 
ing at ? 

Dan. I. (Laughing.) Cause I ketched you admirin' your pussonel 
experience. 

Evart. Confound your impudence. (Throws himself into a 
chair.) Well, what did the Colonel say ? 

DanH. He is comin' down right away. Jimminy Cripps ! 
You're settin' on my cake. 

Evart. What? (Jumping up and shaking his coat tails.) Oh! 
this substance. (Helen enters.) Ah! Good morning, Helen. 

Helen. Good morning. 

Evart. I am examining a curious article of diet. Healthy, ap- 
parently. ( Weighing it in his hand) Now this, I fancy, is the 
sort of thing the Nihilists feed to young Emperors. (Tosses the 
<uik< — JJanH exit.) Well, Helen in a few months you will no 
doubt be packing your trunks for Albany. Every thing looks 
favorable. 

Helen. For my father's sake I hope you are a true prophet. 
As for myself, I am too much attached to my home to care to 
leave it. But of course wherever my father goes, I go. Here he 
comes now. 

Col. {Heard singing outside.) Oh! Susanna, don't you cry for 
me, for I'm just from Alabama, with my banjo on my knee. 

Evart. He's in good spirits. 

Col. (Outside.) Oh, Susanna — (Tries to open door.) Blast 
the infernal thing. Who locks this door ? (Bursts it open and 
enters.) 

Helen. ( Going to him.) My dear father, the door wasn't 
locked. It only opens hard. 

Col. Well, what the devil do they have such doors for V Here, 
you Daniel! Daniel! (DanH enters.) Take these books to the 
office and stop at the smiths and tell him to come and mend this 
lock. If you are gone over ten minutes I'll flay you alive. Do 
you hear, you slice of African midnight ? I'll head you up in a 
keg of molasses. I'll — How are you getting along with your les- 
sons, you young rascal ? Hey ? 

Dari'l. I'm a studyin, sir. 



SUNSET. 5 

Col. Keep it up, sir ; keep it up. Perhaps the President will 
wipe away the color line by giving you a seat in his cabinet. 

Dan?l. Yes, sir; I'm a studyin, sir ; I'm a stiidyin. 

Col. Leave now. — Run. [Exit Dari'l.) Ah, Evart, my boy, 
good morning. 

Evart. Good morning, Colonel. 

Col. Nellie, my dear [kissing her), Evart and I are going to 
have a little talk on business. Run ont and order my breakfast ; 
I must be off early this morning. 

Helen [Going). Very well, sir. (Aside.) I think I know tin- 
business. Does the dear old man think I am blind. [Exit IL l< n. 

Col. I asked you to step in this morning, because it seems al- 
most impossible to see you alone at any other time. The pains 
and penalties of running for office are prodigious. It suits neither 
my temper nor my habit of life to be constantly agreeable and 
pleasant to the thousand and one small politicians and egotistical 
sympathizers that intrude themselves on me day and night. I 
assure you I am heartily sick of the whole affair. 

Evart. The annoyances are inevitable, sir. 

Col. 1 suppose they are. Now, Evart, to be brief, you say you 
want to marry my daughter Nellie. When I say that it has been 
for some time my wish and meets with my entire approval, you 
will, I hope, take it as the highest possible compliment I can pay 
you. If I were not such a goOd-for-nothing old fellow, ami didn'l 
think it my duty to see her settled, by George, I would probably 
pitch any young man out the window who asked me for her. What 
is her feeling toward you ? 

Evart. She has always treated me kindly ; that she loves me 
I would scarcely dare to say. 

Col. Oh, love ! I have heard so much nonsense talked about it 
that I almost despise the word. I know perfectly well that there 
is such a thing, but even when the passion is real and strong it 
too often becomes a Jack o'lantern that leads the young into all 
sorts of scrapes and incongruities. Inclination, founded on the 
real, not the fictitious characters of one another, is what should 
lead young people together. Why, I have seen young people 
supposed to be passionately in love who possessed about the sap 
and strength of two frost-bitten onions. Now you just walk in 
the garden for a few minutes and I'll have a little talk with 
Nellie. (Exit Evart.) Nellie ! Nellie ! (Enter Nellie.) Come 
and kiss your cross old daddy. How much do you love him ? 
Oceans ? 

Helen. Just oceans. 

Col. And what do you think of him ? 

Helen. Ah, my dear father, you would be perfect if you only 
had a little patience and would stop — 

Col. What, you little imp; lecturing your own father. Well, 
well, patience is an article, I never had a large >;tock of, and 



6 SUNSET. 

swearing — well, that is my besetting sin. But, ray dear, did you 
ever have the gout ? Besides, what is a person to do ? The Eng- 
lish language contains words condensed and forcible, and in 
moments of pain and anger tliey come to the lips, hot and hum- 
ming like a swarm of yellow jackets with the smell of brimstone 
on them. They mean no great harm. What do you suppose 
Napoleon said when he lost the battle of Waterloo ? 

Helen. Dog on it, I suppose. 

Col. Ha ! ha ! ha ! Ah, well, when I get to Heaven I'll re- 
form. If I ever get there. 

Halen. Get there ! You dear old man. Who'll be there if 
you are not ? 

Col. Ah, fancy me with a white robe and a harp in a conven- 
tional Heaven, where no swearing is allowed. But to speak 
seriously, my dear ; if I should leave you, what would you do ? 
Do you ever think of marrying ? 

Helen. Marry ? Why should I marry ? I can take care of 
myself. But you must not talk so. 

Cil. You take care of yourself ! Why, out in the world 
you'd be as helpless as a poor little canary bird in the depth of 
a Canadian winter. 

Helen. Ah, you're sorry I didn't take after you. Six feet tall, 
with eye glasses and a stride like a grenadier. 

Col. No, no, no. I detest the whole tribe of strong-minded 
females, hooked-nosed transcendentalists, female suffragists and 
heaven knows what else. No, no. 

Helen. But perhaps I am a strong minded female. (Strikhif/ 
an attitude.) 1 believe in woman's rights, the reform of the civil 
service, female suffrage and, and — the precession of the equinoxes. 
Ha ! Ha ! Ha ! Don't I look like the statue of Liberty enlighten- 
ing the world ? 

Col. Very much. 

Helen. Why should a strong minded female like myself marry ? 
Besides, don't I have you to take care of and then — 

Col. And then what ? 

Helen. Why, young men are so commonplace. Most girls 
seem satisfied if they get a tolerably respectable walking stick. I 
should like at least a little individuality. 

Col. I agree with you, my dear. But all young men are not 
commonplace. What do you think of Evart? 

Helen. I think we won't talk of him. 

Col. But we must talk of this matter. 

Helen. Oh, how I hate the whole subject. 

Col. Now, for Heaven's sake, child, don't be perverse. I am 
not going to force you to do anything, but does not half a cen- 
tury of experience at least give a value to ray advice. My child, 
listen. {Takes her on his knee.) I have had a long and I may say 
prosperous life. I have won an honorable position, and so far I 



SUNSET. 7 

may point to my life's work with pardonable pride. Slander, 
thank God, has never touched me or mine. In my old age when 
I had given up all hope, and had little desire for great honor 
I am chosen to represent a great party. This is very well, but I 
must remember that I am in reality a gouty old man. It is easy, 
my dear, to count the years, perhaps the days, that are left me. 

Helen. Father, I will not hear you talk so. 
Col. I do not wish to pain you, my dear. But don't you see 
why I wish to have you happily settled ? Evart is a young man 
of great ability, very pleasing in his manners and in every way 
suitable. If I am elected he will have every opportunity for ad- 
vancement. (She buries her face in his shoulder.) Why ! what ! 
Crying ! (Embracing her.) God bless you. Have I hurt your 
feelings? I am not forcing you. How unreasonable. My child, 
do stop crying. You worry, you irritate me. Just like a woman. 
You work and plan for them, and think you are doing for the best 
when, instead of opposing you with reason, they begin to sob and 
cry, and make you feel like a brute. What is the matter ? Is 
there some one else. Ah, I see. Pray who is the fortunate young 
man you have made happy without my knowledge ? 

Helen. I do not like to hear you talk about leaving me, sir. 

Col. Well, well, if that's all, we'll soon dry those tears. Why, 
bless you, I am good for many years yet. Don't I look so? I'll 
dance you a jig. Come, come now, be happy. Come and talk to 
your old father, while he drinks his coffee. (Helen goes out fol- 
lowed by old man who looks back as he is going out and sees Evart 
enter.) 

Col. I will be along in a moment, Nellie. ( T<> Evart.) The 
idea is brand new to her, but persevere, my boy, and you're bound 
to win. {Exit.) 

Evart. Jolly old boy. (Arthur Carrington enters.) Ah, Car- 
rington. 

Arthur. Schuyler, good morning. 

Evart. Arthur, my boy. (Takes him familiarly by the shoidd- 
ers — Arthur receiving advances stiffly.) How are you? What 
brings you here this morning ? 

Arthur. I left my cane last night. What brings you here ? 
A fair exchange is no robbery. 

Evart. Oh, I have the run of the place, you know. I'm a 
favorite of the old gentleman's and perhaps of the young lady's, 
eh? 

Arthur. Umph ! Is that so ? 

Evart. To be approved by old age and beloved py youth and 
beauty; what more can a young man want? Ah, methinks I 
hear the elephantine tread of our friend Babb. Our worthy chief 
approaches. 

Baku Enters. 
Mr. Babb, good morning. 



8 SUNSET. 

Augustus Babb. [Small man, great courtesy and very large 
manner.) Gentlemen, good morning. (/Shakes hands.) This is 
a fine bracing day. 

Evart. Very. Just the day for a spin behind Young Hyson 
in my T-cart. 

Arthur. Anything new about the election ? 

Babb. Nothing special. More delegations and the like. 

Evart. How these delegations do try the old man's patience. 
They range all the way from a lot of half -fledged college students 
to a deputation of political bruisers. You should have seen the 
delegation from the 6th Ward, New York. Shades of Jefferson ! 
Could he but see the substratum of the party he founded. The 
spokesman wore a black velvet coat and vest, and a pair of the 
most exquisite lavender trousers. From his curled and raven 
locks were wafted all the perfumes of Araby. On the little finger 
of his left hand sparkled the Kohinoor, while on his shirt front 
blazed three electric lights. Politics makes strange bed-fellows. 

Arthur. Ay, you're right. Turn either party bottom upwards 
and its like a spadeful of rich garden loam — full of all sorts of 
wriggling things. But, Mr. Babb, you are in the thick of the 
fight ; how goes the canvass ? 

Babb. I may say that the prospect is flattering, very flattering. 
The election in this State decides the next Presidential election. 
Gentlemen, the country wants a change and the country will 
have it. 

Evart. I'm a Greenbacker, because they want more change. 

Babb. Very good. Ha ! ha ! ha ! Gentlemen, the atmos- 
phere is electric with success and victory for our party. The 
Centralization party has dug its own grave. Why, but the other 
day, happening to meet the present Attorney General ; an old 
friend of mine, by-the-way — understand me this is in strict confi- 
dence — I told him plainly that I thought the record of the present 
administration was simply infamous. Sir, said I, I charge your 
party with a departure from the old Jeffersonian principles upon 
which this Government was founded, with an attempt to so cen- 
tralize the power that we may look in the near future for either a 
dictator or a king. I denounce your party as the abettor of fraud 
and corruption in high places. Sir, I charge that you have so 
mismanaged the finances, the civil service, and, in fact, every in- 
terest of the people, that we intend to rise up on the 5th of next 
November and sweep you from the face of the earth. 

Evart. That was plain talk. 

Babb. Gentlemen, it is my custom to talk plainly. But, Schuy- 
ler, you were absent yesterday. 

Evart. Ah, yes, I was unexpectedly detained. 

Babb. It has become a habit of late. We must sustain the 
reputation of the office. But I must go. Very important busi- 
ness connected with the canvass demands my attention. Gentle- 
men, I wish you good morning. (Exit) 



SUNSET. 9 

Evart. (Scornfully.) Ha! ba! ha! (Arthur laughs good-natured- 
ly.) Now, by all the immortal Gods! A stranger might take him 
to be one of the pillars of the nation instead of an insignificant sub- 
official. Give him a little whiskey and he dilates into a God. He 
respires freely at an altitude where we common mortals gasp for 
breath. 

Arthur. There seems to be some venom in your remarks. Babb 
isn't a bad fellow by any means. 

Eoarts. Do you mean to say that you can patiently stand to 
be ordered about by such a compound of absurdity, and be rated 
like a boy if you are absent a day? And one must be pleasant 
to him and swallow it all to please the Colonel. If you enjoy it, 
I don't. But, Arthur, my boy (Takes him by the shoulder famil- 
iarly), I must leave you. Business of vast importance demands 
my attention (Imitating Babb). I wish you good morning (Exit, 
laughing). 

Arthur. What a clever taking rascal he is, and how completely 
that veneer of good fellowship deceived me at first? But once 
know a thing to be a sham, no cleverness can afterwards hide the 
lie. Well, there's one consolation for stupid honesty; your clever 
rascal always gets tripped up sooner or later. (Looking around and 
sitting down). Ah, what a pleasant house this is and how many 
pleasant hours I might have spent here but for the prejudice the old 
gentleman has against me. He had some misunderstanding with 
ray father and the headstrong old fellow, in the style of the Old 
Testament, extends his dislike to future generations. I've known 
him my whole life. I went to school with his daughter, and we 
were for years like brother and sister ; and yet I sit here afraid 
lest the Colonel should stalk in and greet me with a " Good morn- 
ing," which, translated by his expressive countenance, means sim- 
ply, " Go to the devil." And yet the old fellow gives me my bread 
and butter, and I like him in spite of all. He wants to marry 
Helen to this precious scamp, Schuyler. She can't like him. 
Helen's too clear sighted for that. Is she fond of me ? Ah, what 
dreams I have had of success and pleasant home. Alas, poor or- 
phan. I must write, make a name and money. But I am so con- 
foundedly lazy. I'll have to get a wife to keep my resolutions. 
(Rises.) I must be off. Well, we'll see. I am heartily tired of 
whistling Home, Sweet Home from an attic window with a trio of 
Tom cats in the chorus, or of wandering with aimless feet, to the 
same melody, amid cigar stumps, profanity and electric lights in 
the corridors of the Cosmopolitan Hotel, where the foot of the 
American politician is on its native heath. (Turns to leave.). 

Helen. (Enters.) Arthur! 

Arthur. Helen ! 

Helen. You here and at this hour? 

Arthur. Accident and — and good fortune since I meet you. 

Helen. Oh, thank you. Does early rising usually affect you so ? 



10 SUNSET. 

Arthur. Early rising, I must admit is not one of my virtues, 
but you know I am a writer, and something of a poet 

Helen. Yes, I know it. [Nodding quizzically.) 

Arthur. And every poet from Milton to Tupper lias lubricated 
bis fancy witb the midnight oil. Why should not I ? 

Helen. Why not to be sure? It keeps you out of mischief. 

Arthur. [Extravagantly.) Ah ! If you knew how sensitive we 
author's are, you wouldn't be so quizzical. 

Helen. We author's ! How I should like to see you in one of 
your rapt inspired moods. 

Arthur. There is precious little seraphic star gazing about 
writing, I can tell you. I find it downright hard work. Fancy 
your poor dog of an author worrying his juiceless bone until the 
last drop of nutriment is extracted. When, with jaded nerves, 
he deposits the unsightly object in some secret place and walks 
abroad, outwardly calm, but immensely conscious of his hidden 
bone, tread lightly about him, lest you bruise his sensitive soul or 
crush the fragile flowers of a budding genius. 

Helen. Upon my word, you are brilliant this morning, very 
brilliant. 

Arthur. It is the morning, my dear Helen, the bright, breezy, 
bracing morning, when one stands tip toe on the misty mountain 
tops and draws the electric sparks of wit and wisdom from the 
clouds themselves. 

Helen. Enough ! enough ! Have some regard for my poor 
wits, almost drowned in this flood of egotistical rhetorical froth ? 
Indeed, I am quite faint. (Feigning exhaustion.) 

Arthur. (Starting forwards.) Alas ! What have I done? Let 
me support you? 

Helen. Keep your distance, sir. (They laugh.) 

Arthur. Oh, I remember a time when you didn't make me 
keep my distance. Years ago when we went to school together. 

Helen. Don't I remember how stupid I was, and how you used 
to help me do my sums ? 

Arthur. And don't I remember bow you worked at those sums 
with your nose within two inches of the slate, and your mouth 
screwed into an expression of chirographical agony. 

Helen. And don't 1 remember the slate pencils I ate and the 
chalk I got in my mouth and hair, until I thought the world was 
made of chalk and slate pencils? 

Arthur. And don't I remember the dear little pigtail you wore, 
like a pound of Virginia twist tobacco done up in a blue ribbon, 
and how I thought you the sweetest, dearest, most confiding little 
girl in 

Helen. Stop ! Stop ! (Putting her hands over her cars.) 

Arthur. Ah, I never had a chance to show you what ghosts I 
could have defied, what monsters I could have slain in your be- 
half. 



SUNSET. 11 

Helen. Dear me, how romantic. And all the time I thought 
you a commonplace little boy, the son of poor but honest parents, 
with a dirty face and patches on both knees of your trousers. Ha ! 
ha! ha! 

Arthur. Ah, Nellie, do you think me less romantic now? {Tries 
to put his arm around her.) 

Helen. (/Springing away.) No, no; I hear my father. 

Arthur. (Col. is heard singing without; Arthur seizes his hat). 
Confound the old man. (Tries to get out but is stopped by furni- 
ture eincl faces about.) 

Col. Good morning, Mr. Carrington. (Looking suspicious.) 

Arthur. Ah ! Good morning. 1 — I — called to get my cane. 

Col. Good morning, Mr. Carrington. (As Arthur leaves.) 
Come, Nellie, I must go. (Exeunt.) 



Scene II. — CoPs. Office. — Daniel comes in with books and 
goes into CoVs. room. — Evart Schuyler enters, takes his mail 
from his desk and opens it. 

Evart. Bills, of course. How infernally accurate and honest 
those Post Office clerks are. They never steal anybody's tailor 
oil Is. They always come straight. Confound it ! Here's this 
bill of Snip & Co., outlawed long ago. ( Opens and reads another.) 
Damnation ! (Drops it.) Another five thousand gone. I told 
that cursed idiot in New York to sell the moment the stock 

dropped. By I'd like to strangle him. Evart Schuyler, 

you are in a pretty scrape. Fifteen thousand dollars gone and 
the whole thing may be found out at any time. Well, and if it 
does come out, it will take the wind out of some peoples' sails. 
The Hon. Augustus Babb — the Hon. Good God ! Could any 
one believe that such an inflated fool existed. The virtue proud 
Carrington. But what the devil shall I do ? Try it again ? It 
can't be worse, and I maybe fortunate. Evart Schuyler, if you get 
out of this with a whole skin, you will have some valuable ex- 
perience. It's early yet. (Locks the door.) I'll have to take the 
risk. ( Goes to Habb's desk.) That key is convenient. (Takes out 
books and alters figures — goes to another desk, docs same, an el puts 
them away.) That's done. (Goes to safe., opens it and takes pack- 
age money out, and counts it.) 

Dan. (Appearing at door of room — in a whisper) Jimminy 
Cripps ! Look at the money. 

Ed art. (Heevring the noise, turns, pushes the door of the safe to, 
andshoves money in his pocket.) How did you come here ? 

Dan. (Sidling toward door.) Fetched books for Colonel. 

Evart. (Aside.) He doesn't understand, but he'll talk. (Aloud.) 
Daniel, come here I want to speak to you. 

Dan. What you want? 



12 SUNSET. 

Evart. Come here. Do you hear me ? (Advancing.) 

(Daniel rushes to the door, finds it locked, unlocks and partly 
opens it, when Evert seizes him.) 

Dan. What you want ? Take your hands off my f roat. I 
ain't done nothin to you. 

Evart. (Holding him tightly by the throat.) You infernal 
black imp, if you ever say anything about this I'll kill you. Don't 
I look as if I could do it ? Keep your mouth shut, and I will pay 
you for it. Do you hear? 

Daniel. Let me go. I ain't done nothin to you. 

Arthur. (Enters.) Hello ! hello ! what's this ? 

Evart. (Starting slightly, pushes the boy away.) He was im- 
pudent. (Daniel starts for the door.) This will be a lesson to 
you. Next time I'll, kill you outright. (Exit DanH ) Ha ! ha ! 
ha ! He's pretty badly scared. Well, he needs it. He's been 
petted too much. 

Arthur. Why, Schuyler, what an actor you are. You looked 
exactly as if you were about to murder him. 

Eoart. Well, perhaps I did get too angry. (Arthur looks at 
him very fixedly.) What the devil do you mean by staring at me 
in that way ? 

Arthur. What did the boy do ? 

Evart. Oh come, come. It's not worth talking about. Look 
here. I want you to tell me how this coat fits. Isn't it a beauty, 
eh ? Why, a girl would have me for the pleasure of burying her 
nose in these silk facings and on this manly bosom. (Arthur 
turns his back and walks off.) What does this mean V 

Arthur. (Turns back.) I'll tell you plainly, Schuyler, what 
I have been wanting to say for some time. I don't like you and 
I don't trust you. 

Evart. What ! 

Arthur. Oh, you needn't be surprised. Your assumption of 
heartiness and friendship, however it may deceive for a time, 
lacks the magnetism of truth. 

Evart. What do you mean ? 

Arthur. Mean. That I take you to be a rascal. Is that satis- 
factory ? (Eoart advances threateningly and stops.) Oh, you won't 
touch me. You're too politic for that. It would be better to 
leave the room till you're calmer. You can't depart too suddenly 
or stay away too long for my pleasure. 

Evart. You are right. Nothing is to be gained by violence 
but you will repent this, Carrington. 

Arthur. Oh, I don't doubt for a moment your intention. 
What you will be able to do is another matter. (Exit Evart.) 
Now what is going on here ? What could the boy have done ? 
That look on Schuyler's face was a devilish one. I can't account 
for it. 

Babb. (Enters.) Ah, Carrington, you here? (Agents enter.) 



SUNSET. 13 

Why, Mr. McCorkle, how are you? Just from Washington? 
What is your pleasure to-day ? 

McCorMe. Yes, we are just from Washington, and charged 
with the unpleasant duty of investigating this office. 

JSabb. This office, gentlemen ? You amaze me. Upon what 
ground ? 

Mc. We prefer to speak to the Colonel himself. 

13 abb. (Drawing himself up imposingly.) Gentlemen, the ad- 
ministration which you represent 

Col. [Entering — gouty and stamping with cane.) Hey! Hey! 
Augustus, what's up now ? Soaring in the Empyrean again ? 
Why, McCorkle, my old friend, how are you? (They shake 
hands.) 

Mc. Colonel, let me introduce to you Gen'l Ketchum, of the 
Department. 

Col. I am happy to make your acquaintance, sir. Well, gen- 
tlemen, in what way may we serve you ? You desire aid in some 
investigation ? Any assistance that is in our power to give is at 
your command. Augustus, see that these gentlemen have every 
facility. (Turns to go in his room.) 

Mc. One moment, Colonel. Our business interests you as the 
head of this office. To be brief, we are charged with the investi- 
gation of the books of this office. 

Col. Sir! 

Mc. For some months past irregularities in your accounts have 
been noticed. The Department wishes a thorough investigation, 
and we are here to make it. 

Col. What! The Department orders you to investigate the 
books of this office ? I say you shall not touch a book in this of- 
fice. This is a damnable political trick and one woi-thy of the ad- 
ministration that attempts it. 

Mc. We are old friends and I know your hasty temper. 

Col. Yes, sir; I have a hasty temper ; but Avere I the meekest 
saint on earth, so transparent a trick would rouse me. 

Mc. You forget that the Secretary is your superior, and that 
you hold office under the administration you assail. (Evart enters.) 

Col. I forget nothing, sir. I have never asked for nor would 
I soil my hands by accepting the smallest favor. I do them a 
favor by retaining a position I accepted forty years ago, when 
your de facto President and most of his cabinet were in panta- 
lettes. I date back to the times of Washington, of Adams, of 
Jefferson — those grand old fellows who made the nation a possi- 
bility. A time, sir, which contained the germs of the present 
without its vices. A time when the young country, hemmed in 
between the ocean and the watch-fires of the red man, a mere en- 
campment upon the shores of terra incognita, like a crescent 
moon, held dimly outlined within her bright and glowing arms 
the vast and shadowy empire of the future. But, sir, the de- 



14 SUNSET. 

scendants of the virtuous Noah were the vicious children of Sodom 
and Gomorrah. By the Lord ! I grow eloquent. Yes, sir, the 
centralization party, bloated with spoils and with a constitution 
undermined through vices engendered by a quarter of a century of 
absolute power, thinks to save itself by coquetting with the sickly 
thing called Civil Service Reform, as if the fat woman at the 
museum should flirt with the living skeleton. And of all the 
offices in the country, bless its virtuous soul, it selects mine to 
investigate and discredit on the eve of an important and decisive 
election. 

This office, as the Secretary well knows, I have made one of the 
few efficient and honestly run offices in the service and my clerks 
are tried and trusted men who have been with me for years. I 
tell you this office shall not be investigated, and what's more, it 
needs no investigation. 

AgU Col. Flint. 

Col. Well ? What are you going to say ? Out with it. I can 
stand it. I suppose I don't know what I'm talking about. 

Me. To be frank, you do not. 

Col. What ! I don't know what I'm talking about. Augustus, 
do you hear this man ? Good God ! I — don't — know — what 
I'm talking about. Augustus, have you any chain lightning oaths 
to spare ? Whew ! (Blazes up), What ! ! Investigate and be 
damned. (Turning abruptly and stalking to the door.) Don't 
— know — what I'm talking about. Good God ! I— don't — know 
— what I'm talking about. (Mr it, slamming the door savagely.) 

Me. There he goes, mad, and crazy. I knew there was going 
to be a row. 

GenH K. I don't propose to be treated in this manner. 

Me. Oh, if you knew him as well as I do you wouldn't mind 
it. He gels himself up like some Condor of the Ancles when an 
impertinent human being has peered into his nest. 

Col. (Re-enters and stalks up to Mo.) I — don't — know what 
I'm talking about. Sir, if I don't know what I'm talking about in 
this matter who in the name of all the devils does ? After forty 
years of service on this spot I am to stand here patiently and be 
told by you — Why, damn your impudence, what do you mean ? 
(Evart approaehes him and puts Ms hand on his sleeve, gently.) 
This is no time to interrupt me. 
v Evart. I beg your pardon. 

Col. Well, what is it ? (They walk aside.) 

Evart. You will excuse me, sir, if my advice is ill timed. 

Col. Any advice is ill timed. Go on. 

Evart. You are right to be angry, but these gentlemen are 
mere agents and are not to blame. It will be useless to oppose 
the investigation. In fact your opposition will only make them 
the more determined and will be the more damaging to your can- 
vass should the affair get out. I should not have ventured to say 
this 



SUNSET. 15 

Col. ( Gradually clearing and calming.) You are right as you 
always are. Gentlemen, I owe you an apology. You are not re- 
sponsible for the unwelcome order you bring. Augustus, you will 
see that these gentlemen have every facility in this matter. My 
clerks will gladly assist you. 

Mc. We are ordered to make the investigation without the 
aid of any employe of this office. 

Babb. The animus of this is apparent. 

Mb. My dear Colonel, I hope you believe that I will find no 
error that is not there. 

Col. I do my old friend, and we will ratify the peace with some 
tine old Scotch whisky. (Going to table and taking out bottles and 
glasses.) Gentlemen, I call this bottled hope. (Tries cork.) 

JEvart. (Taking out corkscrew.) Allow me. (Takes bottle.) 

Col. Clever young man. Depend on him, gentlemen, for say- 
ing and doing the right thing at the light time. 

Enart. Believe me, gentlemen, I carry this implement not for 
the base uses of the appetite, but as the emblem of vast power, 
the key to both heaven and hell. (Fills glasses — they all drink.) 

Col. Very good, Evart. The fascinating thing about liquor 
is that you pass through heaven to get to the other place. If the 
temperance people could only reverse things. 

Mc. Ah, Colonel, you rascal, haven't you just reversed things 
yourself? I think you gave us a taste of the brimstone first. 
But, man, you didn't swear half enough. Thirty years ago, when 
I first knew you, you would have done lhat scene more justice. 

Col. I felt like a bottle of champagne that was trying to un- 
cork itself. If I can't swear when I get mad I'm like a man in a 
fight with nothing but blank cartridges. McCorkle, if you had 
come here twenty years ago with a cock and bull story like this 
I'd have called you out, and you'd have had no more chance than 
a bob-tailed horse in fly time, or a eat in hell without claws. By 
George, I'm a younger man than you now. (Throws himself into 
fighting attitude with his cane, making a very wry face — -foot 
hurts him.) Draw, villain. Defend yourself. (They imitate duel. 
— Mc. thrusts and C'd. wards it off.) Ah, no, Danglars ! (Col. 
thrusts.) Ah, ha, I had you then, my boy. Ha ! ha ! ha ! Well, 
Augustus, you will tend to these gentlemen. 

Babb. (Putting himself in speaking attitude.) Certainly. But, 
gentlemen, let me say that the administration which you represent 
should be investigating its own title, which I need not tell you is 
fraudulent, instead of harboring suspicions against honest and 
faithful public servants. 

Mc. Why hold office then under a fraudulent administration? 

Babb. Why, sir, because we are old and faithful servants of 
the people, and not the slaves of a party holding power by fraud 
and corruption. 

Col. That is right. Give it to him, Augustus. 



16 SUNSET. 

Mc. Oh, this cry of fraud is a mere political one. 

Babb. One moment, if you please, one moment. Gentlemen, 
if ever I am uplifted in the sight of the people of this nation as a 
candidate for the Presidency, if ever I am placed before them as one 
worthy of their suffrages, and I am convinced that, in the sight of 
high heaven, I have not received a legal majority of said suffrages, 
no matter what might be expedient, I would consider myself false 
to my maker and my country should I accept the office. 

Col. (Aside to Ed art.) Augustus, the aeronaut will, I fear, 
have to lose a great quantity of gas before he reaches terra firma 
again. Come, gentlemen, another taste of the Old Scotch. (They 
Jill glasses.) Gentlemen, if there is a rascal in this office may you 
find bim and may God forgive him, for I won't. So far we drink 
to your success. (All drink. Curtain down.) 



ACT II. 

Scene I. — Col. Mint's house. — Time, evening. — After dinner. — 
Enter Evart Schuyler, Helen Flint, Valeria Babb. — Dresses in 
disorder. 

Miss V. Merciful Heavens, what a narrow escape. Oh, I'm 
all unnerved. When I felt myself getting mixed up with that 
wagon, I was so astonished I didn't have time to get scared. I 
just thought, Valeria Babb, this is the first time you were ever 
killed in this way before. Evart Schuyler, you must give that 
horse a good talking to. I thought you could drive. I believe 
you drove into that lamp post on purpose. You never treat me 
with common politeness anyhow. 

Evart. My dear Mies Valeria, you are excited, you are hysteri- 
cal, the victim of a chaotic imagination. You should see your- 
self. 

Miss V. You should see yourself, sir. Oh, wad some power 
the gif tie give us. Oh, look at my poor dress. I'm like Niobe all 
tears. Oh dear, I am all unnerved. Oh, my ! (Flounces out.) 

Helen. Oh, I was so frightened. I thought 1 was going to be 
killed. 

Evart. Young Hyson never did anything like that before. I 
thought he had sown his wild oats long ago. The little boy who 
wrote in his composition that the horse was a very useful animal 
forgot to mention that he was also a very uncertain one. The most 
staid old family hack is liable, at any moment, like some bank 
cashier, whose white cravat and pious profession have won him 
the confidence of the community, to run away and bankrupt both 
your vehicle and your faith in horseflesh. Did you see how 
viciously the rascal kicked ? The wagon looks more like a game 



SUNSET. 17 

of Jack Straws than a T-cart. If your dear aunt could have seen 
herself when 1 helped her from under the debris, pressed almost 
flat like an autumn leaf in a portfolio. Ha ! ha ! ha ! 

Helen. I don't like you to make fun of my aunt. It wasn't 
your fault if we weren't badly hurt. 

Evart. You don't mean to say I was afraid ? 

Helen. I don't know what it was. Perhaps you were afraid of 
spoiling your good looks or your clothes. You didn't act like a 
brave or unselfish person. There — it was on my mind and 1 had 
to say it. (Exit.) 

Evart. ITmph! Curse her impudence. What does she ex- 
pect ? If she wants a man to seize a kicking horse by the heels 
I'm not the person. Oh woman, woman ! I have heard of asy- 
lums for indigent females. Won't some one found an asy- 
lum for indignant females? How completely unreasonable they 
are. I ask the young lady to go driving with me intending to 
say certain tender and delicate things. She can't go without her 
dear aunt. So unselfish. My horse gets scared and smashes 
every thing. One lady tells me that I am impolite, and the 
other, instead of falling on my bosom and calling me her pre- 
server, tells me I'm a coward. It's a lie. But this investigation. 
( Walks up and down agitated.) Idiot ! Fool ! That a man with 
as clear a head as mine should take money and think that he could 
make it good by speculation. Idiot ! idiot ! But what is the use 
of cursing oneself. If they should fail to find anything? Well, 
there's but one thing to do. Go ahead, propose to the girl and 
take my chance. Ah ! here she comes again. {Helen enters.) 
Well, have you come to pay me another compliment ? 

Helen. Perhaps I spoke too hastily. I do not believe that you 
were afraid, but 

Evart. Never mind the buts. If you say so we'll change the 
subject. Oh! — Ah! — what shall I say. What a fine old fellow 
the Col. is ? 

Helen. I'm glad you appreciate him, I'm sure. 

Evart. — He's charming. He has such excellent judgment. He 
thinks I'm a tine fellow. 

Helen. You think that speaks well for his judgment. But if 
he did not think so there would at least be one person to hold that 
opinion. 

Evart. Ah, who ? Yourself? {Approaching her with show of 
delight.) Is it yourself? 

Helen. Yes, yourself. 

Eiiart. Oh, that is wicked ! But you jest. It is your opinion 
also. Could a person of my elaborate virtue and perfection, 
faultless both in costume and character, and almosl constantly in 
your sight, fail to impress you favorably ? Modest as I am I can 
not believe it. Let us be serious 

Helen. You, serious ? 



18 SUNSET. 

Evart. Helen, lightly as you use me, the Colonel has led me 
to believe that an offer of marriage on my part would not be dis- 
tasteful to you, certainly not to him. In the flowery language of 
poetry, may I be permitted to lay my heart at your feet ? 

Helen. Most certainly, sir, if you have no better place for it ; 
it will doubtless make excellent pavement. 

hvart. Ah, how cruel and how witty you are. Come, for two 
minutes by the watch [takes out watch) let us be serious. May I 
ask for a serious answer? Ah, you are silent, and silence means 
— [starting forward.) 

Helen. Silence. 

Evart. Well, you are a strange girl. You do not say, no. 
Shall I tell the Colonel that the matter is settled ? 

Helen. If you think this sufficient encouragement. 

Eoart. I may claim a lover's privilege ? [Approaches her.) 

Helen. [As he attempts to put his arm around her, she fakes his 
hand and pushes it away.) No, sir; this is purely a business 
affair. 

Eoart. Umph ! [Turns and walks toward the door — aside.) 
They don't do it this way in novels. A purely business affair. 
AVell, it is business with me. [Turns and kisses his hand.) Au 
revoir, my most unique and spicy fiancee. [Exit.) 

Helen. [Stamping her foot.) Oh! conceited, mercenary pup- 
py. Nothing less than a blank refusal would silence him. His 
fiancee indeed. He can't think that. It is only one of his imperti- 
nences. He thinks I will be foreed into this marriage by my 
father's wishes. He has heon chasing me about for days to say 
this. I thought I'd as well have it over with. Why did I not 
refuse him outright ? No, that would never do. My father is 
half crazy with the gout, and has not been out for days. No, 
until this election business is over, I must not add to the worry 
and trouble of the dear old man. 

Arthur. {Entering.) Ah, you are safe and sound. The report 
of the accident frightened me. 

Helen. lean assure you, Aunt Valeria and myself were dread- 
fully frightend. 

Arthur. I am so glad to know that you were not hurt, 

Helen. And Aunt Valeria ? 

Arthur. And Aunt Valeria; of course, Aunt Valeria. 

Helen. And Kvart Schuyler? 

Arthur. He did not break his neck ? 

Helen. [Laughing.) Why, no; he didn't. 

Arthur. I am so ry for that. 

Helen. You are positively brutal. 

Arthur. Oh, the fate of man does not interest me; let them be 
blown up in powder mills or perish in battle, be sun-struck in Cen- 
tral Africa, or frozen at the North Pole. What do I care ? But, 
woman, charming woman! 



SUNSET. 1 9 

Helen. What an invaluable man you would be in case of fire 
at a young ladies' seminary; or an old ladies' home. But you po- 
ets are so intense. 

Arthur. We poets ? Spare me, if you please. I no longer set up 
for a poet. My poor Pegasus is, I fear, hopelessly wind broken, 
spavined, and knee-sprung, and will never leave the earth again. 
The verdict of the critics is a most significant silence. The ar- 
dent young poet, longing for a word of approbation takes up a 
magazine and turning to or.e of his own productions, beholds like 
a second Belshazzar, written on the margin, what do you think ? 

Helen. Oh, I don't know; "The true fire," or, let me see, " A 
new light ; " "A noble sonnet." Something like that ? 

Arthur. Exactly; something like that. Some brute, with the 
imagination and soul of a hod carrier, writes, " This poet had bet- 
ter go soak his head ! " 

Helen. Ha, ha, ha ! 

Arthur. Oh, I laughed myself; but I am discouraged all the same. 
But I bore you; the subject is uninteresting. 

Helen. No, no. How can one help being interested in a young 
man so interested himself. 

Arthur. It is the fault of the under dog in the fight. It is 
only the dog on top that has time to sit on the under one and look 
at the scenery. Come, now, diagnose my case. Tell my fortune. 
People of my temperament are as changeable as weathercocks. 
In one hour the vision expands until we are like disembodied spir- 
its beating, with the wings of fancy, toward all quarters ef the 
heavens ; in the next, like an inverted parachute, we drop to the 
earth, and the universe contracts to a cheap boarding house and 
underdone chop. But tell my fortune. Will I ever succeed, or 
am I doomed to remain forever an obscure maggot, nibbling away 
in my little cell of the great national cheese. 

Helen. Do you want an honest opinion ? 

Arthur. An honest opinion. 

Helen. Excuse me while I am buried for a few moments in 
profound thought. It is a vast subject. Let me see. You have 
exactly that combination of qualities, good and bad, that, makes 
success difficult for you. You are proud and lazy, poor and gener- 
ous. Loving the good things of this world and the power that 
success brings, you are too indolent to work for them and too 
proud to owe them to others. You have abundant belief in your 
own abilities in a general way, but little faith in particular. You 
spend hours blowing bubbles which vanish as fast as they are 
created. You need a strong stimulus to make you work. Action 
not introspection is your watchword. To sum up, you have many 
excellent qualities and will, I think, after much tribulation, reach 
what you desire. 

Arthur. Thanks. That may not be flattering, but it's honest. 
As you say, I blow bubbles, but they are often anything but bright- 
colored ones. Shall I describe one to you ? 



20 SUNSET. 

Helen. Do. That will be lovely. I am ever so fond of soap 
bubbles. 

Arthur. Sit down here and shut your eyes. That'll make it 
seem real. Well, the other night I got down my pipe — the one I 
keep for blowing bubbles, you know — and began to blow, oh ! the 
most beautiful bubble you ever saw. As it quivered and ex- 
panded and at last a great globe, waved in the breeze, what do 
you think I saw ? 
Helen. What? 

Arthur. Well, I fancied myself twenty years hence settled 
down, a humble paterfamilias, married to some substantial wo- 
man, a good washer, ironer, etc., and living in a little stereotyped 
cottage on the outskirts of the town. In the cottage I saw a room, 
a nice kerosene lam]) on the table, two or three chromos on the 
walls, a motto in worsted work over the mantel, and a big Morn- 
ing Glory stove, almost as handsome as Mullett'3 New York post 
office. While Industry, the father (that was I), plunged homeward 
through the mud puddles and rain with the family provisions on 
his arm ; Patience, the mother, darned stockings by the kerosene 
lamp, Harmony, our daughter, played sunday-school tunes on the 
melodeon, and, sad to say, Impudence and Impertinence, our two 
youngest, were reducing the average of perfection by punching 
each others' heads in the corner. Isn't that a sober enough bubble? 
How do you like my allegory of a blissful domestic existence? 

Helen. Oh, I don't like it at all. It is like a happy family on 
a washing machine advertisement. My bubble would have a dado 
and portieres and open fire places. Tmpudence and Impertinence 
should have their ears boxed and be sent to bed, and Harmony and 
Patience should be waiting very impatiently for Industry to ar- 
rive from New York {jumping up), and that individual had bet- 
ter never been born if he didn't have the last Century and a box 
of Maillard's candy. Ha ! ha ! ha ! 

Arthur. Ah, Nellie, (Rising.) I like yours best. Can't you 
help me to make it a reality ? (Embracing her.) 

Helen.. (Struggling.) Oh, please don't. I didn't mean 

Arthur. Shall it be a bubble or a reality ? 
Helen. I command you, sir, to let me go. 

Arthur. Certainly, if you wish it. (Releasing her.) Shall I 
go? No (Embracing her.) Then, thank God, it shall be a 
reality. 

Helen. I think I hear my father. 

Arthur. Hear him — well what of it? Where is the hard- 
hearted parent? I am afraid of him no longer. Bring on the 
stony-hearted oppressor and suppressor of a noble and virtuous 
youth. Let him cast me into the deepest dungeon in the External 
Revenue office. I fear him not. Come, we'll go find him. 
Helen. No, no, no. Not now. Not for the world. 
Arthur, Why not ? 






SUNSET. 21 

Helen. You see, father has set his heart on my marrying Evart. 
He has urged it upon me a dozen times, and it has taken all my 
tact to evade giving him a direct answer. You know how strong 
his prejudice is against you. Really I believe the dear old man, 
God bless him, thinks I am not five years old. He would be as- 
tonished beyond measure to find out, that I had either an idea or 
a will of my own. Something special troubles him too. For a 
week past, in his thoughtful and quieter moments, he has uttered 
those isolated ejaculatory damns which are with him, like minute 
guns at sea, signs of distress. He is sick and worried now, but 
after the election and some day when he is well, I'll teach him 
the A, B, C of my character and tell him all. 

Arthur. Well, as you say, but I don't like it. 

Helen. There he is now. Quick. Please go. 

Arthur. {Kissing her, seizing his hat and rushing out.) Con- 
found the old man. 

Col. (Entering on Evartfs arm.) Fury and fire, man, you 
are touching my foot. Now help me to that large chair. That 
rest for my foot. Thanks, my boy. (Takes Helenas hand, draws her 
to him and kisses her.) Evart has told me, my child — (bell rings.) 

Helen. Somebody is at the door. I must see that Daniel an- 
swers it. ( Walks quickly out.) 

Col. Now what in creation did she run off for. My boy, I 
congratulate you. She is as good as gold. (Hurrahing without.) 

A voice. Three cheers for Col. Flint. G-o-s-l-i-n-g — Gosling 
—Tiger ! 

Col. What is this disturbance, Evart ? (Ban enters.) Well, 
Daniel ? 

Dan. Fellers from the Goslin Versify, sir. 

Evart. A delegation of students I fancy. Shall I show them 
in? 

Col. No, tell them to go to — I suppose I must see them. Show 
them in. (Evart goes to door — Students enter, very young and 
sprig gy.) 

Spokesman. Sir, Ave, students from the Gosling University, 
wish to offer you our sympathy and support and to assure you 
that the rising generation will be with you in your efforts for re- 
form. Few of us will be able to cast votes for you, but in our 
Philopathean debates many of us have eloquently and forcibly ad- 
vocated your election and the principles which you represent. 
Aware of our inexperience and how little we can do, we never- 
theless remember that out of the mouth of babes and sucklings 
wisdom is sometimes ordained. 

Col. Gentlemen : Feeling that you indeed represent the fu- 
ture of our country, I hope that, in the event of my election, you 
will never regret that you have to-day offered me your sympathy 
and support. Gentlemen, I thank you. ( Exeunt — Evart folio ics 
them out — As mey pass window, Students, — Q-o-s-l-i-n-g — 
Gosling, Tiger ! ) 



22 sunset. 

Col. Confound the young sprigs, what do they mean by com- 
ing here and bothering an old man with their twaddle ? 

Evart. (Enters.) A delegation from the Michael O'Shaugh- 
nessy Association. Shall I show them in? 

Col. Now in the name of all — Show them in. 

(Evart opens the door and delegation enters.) 

Spokesman. Sir, we, the members of the Michael O'Shaugh- 
nessy Association, of New York, come to offer you our congratula- 
tions on the glorious victory which is now assured. May you long 
live to enjoy the honors you have won. 

Col. Gentlemen, I thank you, and have only to regret that 
your congratulations on our glorious victory are somewhat pre- 
mature, the returns not being in and the result still doubtful. 
I thank you heartily, however, and hope we shall not be dis- 
appointed. (Exeunt delegation.) 

Dati'l. (Enters.) A stack of books and two gentlemen, sir. 
Here is the tickets. 

Col. (Takes cards.) This is McCorkle. Tell them to come 
in. I wonder what they have to say. 

Mc. (Agents enter.) Good morning Colonel. 

Col. General, good morning. Good morning McCorkle. I 
suppose you have come to tell me that you are ashamed of 
yourself. (Helen enters.) 

Mc. Believe me, Col., what we have to say is as unpleasant 
for us to tell as for you to hear. 

Col. I don't want to hear it. It's a lie. You're mistaken. 

Mc. But, unfortunately, we are not mistaken. I will show by 
your books that sums of money have at different times disap- 
peared in your orfiee. We know the amounts and the of- 
fenders. 

Col. Well, sir, you say you have the proofs. Who are the 
culprits? 

Me. Augustus Babb? 

Col. Sir ; Augustus Babb ! 

Helen. Uncle Augustus. Impossible. 

Col. Augustus ; why gentlemen, Augustus — You tell me that 
one of my own family, a man whom I have known and trusted 
for twenty years is a common thief. No, sir ! I'd not believe 
it if an angel told me, instead of the devil himself. 

Mc. But, sir, the proofs. Within three minutes I can con- 
vince you. 

Col. Damn the proofs. I'll not hear you. You spoke of 
another. Who is it, sir ? Is it I ? 

Mc. The other ; Carrington. 

Col. Carrington ? 

Helen. Arthur ! Oh, what is this? 

Mc. This is a most painful duty, but the guilt seems clear. 
If these were the first men of good repute who had fallen we 



SUNSET. 23 

might well hesitate to believe it. My dear sir, will you not judge 
for yourself of its truth or falsity. 

Col. Where are these proofs ? 

Mc. The books are in the house. Shall we bring them in ? It 
will take but a few minutes. 

Col. No, sir. Evart, lend me your arm. {Exeunt.) 

Helen. [Alone.) Oh, what horrible charge is this. Arthur Car- 
rington — no, never, and my uncle. There is some mistake here. But 
the charge. Innocent or guilty, this is misery. (Goes to the man- 
tel, rests her head on her hand on the mantel and raises her head 
when Evart enters.) Evart Schuyler, do you believe this ? 

Evart. Not for one moment. 

Helen. It is not possible that men who for years have lived 
honestly and uprightly could so fall? You are a man of the world. 

Evart. You ask hard questions. Anything is possible. 

Helen. But you must know this is not true. 

Evart. I have said I do not believe it. AVhy pester me with 
questions I cannot answer ? 

Helen. You are strangely cool. You have professed to be a 
friend of Carrington's. It cannot be true. But my father is 
so violent. You have influence with him. For my sake prevent 
his doing anything rash. 

Col. (Enters with agents.) I have seen enough. One instance 
is as good as a hundred. 

Me. But, my dear sir, the whole thing should be carefully 
looked into and weighed by you before taking action. 

Col. I accept your estimate of the amount. As to my treat- 
ment of thM.se men, what care I whether they have filched one 
dollar or a hundred thousand. (Determined.) Evart, where are 
these men ? 

Evart. Mr. Babb is to speak at the mass meeting to-night. 
Carrington is possibly there. I do not know. 

Col Order my carriage. 

Evart. My dear sir, do not be rash. 

Col. Order my carriage. By heaven, why don't you move? 
(Exit Evart.) You say there is little or no hope of recovering 
the money. In that event I shall at once transfer this property 
to the Government. Neither the Government nor my bondsmen 
shall lose a dollar 

Mc. My dear sir, that is unnecessary. In the case of an old 
and faithful officer like yourself 

Col. I won't discuss it, McCorkle. It is a duty and a satis- 
faction tome. (Gain;/ towards the door.) This, Babb mouthing 
praises of me before a crowd of gaping idiots. I swear I will tear 
him from the platform. 

Helen. Father, listen to me. Do not rashly do what you may 
repent. It cannot be true. They are innocent. 

Col. Innocent . ? The proof of their infamy is as clear a^ sun- 



24 StTNSET. 

light. Systematic thieves who have played on my confidence. 
Innocent ! 

Helen. I tell you, sir, Arthur Carrington is an innocent man. 
I know it. 

Col. Carrington ! girl. What special interest have you in him? 
Why do you speak for him ? 

Helen. Oh, sir, because I played with him when I was a child. 
We were school children together. We have been intimate for 
years, far more than you think. Oh, sir, do not be rash. I am — 
engaged to him. 

Col. Merciful God. This is too much. Has the whole world 
conspired against me in my old age. My daughter engaged to a 
— a — a — Why, then you must have deceived me by a false en- 
gagement with Evart. (Evart enters.) 

Helen. Oh, sir ! do, be not angry. If I have deceived you, it was 
out of love for you. I did not wish to add to your trouble by 
thwarting your will. I hoped all would come right and if I 
seemed to assent, he will tell you himself, if he is an honest man, 
how I avoided him for days and how when I could not longer do 
so, I repulsed him by a studied coldness and with speeches that 
would have driven away any man less conceited and less deter- 
mined. There he stands, let him tell how ardently I returned his 
undying affection. 

Col. Then I am to understand, that after a concealed engage- 
ment with a — God ! I can't say it — you repulsed and insulted the 
man of my choice, one of the few in whom I can yet trust. Where 
is the carriage ? ( Walks toward Evart at door.) 

Evart. At the door, sir. But do not go. You are scarcely 
able to walk. 

Col. Walk ! I could walk if the way was paved with hell 
fire. 

Evart. Do not be rash, sir. 

Col. How many times must I hear that word. Rash ! (Pins 
him to the wall by the shoulders.) What would you think of a 
man who, after he had for twenty years sat at your table, eaten 
your bread and shared your prosperity, could betray your trust 
and with a breast full of sneaking villany look you in the eye and 
ape an honest man ? What would you do ? 

Helen. (Throws her arms around his neck.) Oh, father! do 
not go. 

Col. Let go. Let go, I say. You've deceived me. I've lost 
my respect for you. (Ihrows her hands off.) I will go. (Exit 
Col. and all but Helen.) 

Helen. (Throws herself in chair.) Oh, merciful God, this will 
kill me ! (Miss V. rushes in.) 

Val. My child, my child, what does it all mean ? 

Helen. Don't — don't ask me. You will know only too soon. 
(Rises and throws her arms around her Aunt.) My dear aunt. 



SUNSET. 25 

Oh, God, one hour ago, who would have thought of this ! Help 
me, my dear aunt. I must go to my room. I feel very weak. 
(Exeunt.) 

Scene II. — In the Square of the town. — Time, night. — Mass meet- 
ing. — Campaign clubs filing in at back with transparencies, 
etc. — Band playing — rockets, blue lights, < tc. — /// foreground 
stand for speakers. — ('liar* for Col. Flint — cries of stu- 
dents. — G-o-s-l-i-n-g — Gosling, tigt r ! 

Hon. Jefferson Froth Ingham. {Interrupted in speaking mops 
his brow and drinks water, etc.; continues as the noise ceases.) 
Yes, fellow-citizens, I ask again: Is there a man within the sound 
of my voice to-night, who does not believe that the anti-centrali- 
zation party stands to-day, as it always has stood, for reform, for 
simplicity, for economy, and for the true interests of the people? 
Wherever she has grasped with beneficent hands the reins of gov- 
ernment, has she not there introduced those plain old-fashioned 
virtues which our forefathers sought to establish and perpetuate? 

A voice. How r about Tweed ? 

Jeff. F. Ahem! Yes, fellow-citizens, those old-fashioned virtues 
which our forefathers fought to establish and perpetuate. But, fel- 
low-citizens, the Centralization party now in power is, 1 repeat it, 
a standing menace to the liberties of the nation. Can the coun- 
try endure another administration of reckless extravagance and 
corruption ? Give the centralization party another four years of 
power, and I predict a financial crash such as has never been ex- 
perienced in the history of the world. The credit of the nation 
abroad has already been shaken to its very foundation. Should the 
Anti-Centralization party be defeated at the polls a week from 
to-da) r and should the Secretary of the Treasury then throw his 
4.20 bonds on the market, I ask you what will be the result. ? 
I ask you as business men, would you invest your capital with 
the same feeling of security — 

A voice. (From a very dilapidated tramp under and near the 
front of the stand.) Never ! 

Jef. F. (Looking around but failing to see the tramp.) Right, 
my friend, right. There spoke the plain common sense of the 
average Anti-Centralization voter. And let me say here, fellow- 
citizens, that I have great faith, the very greatest faith in the sa- 
gacity of the honest and substantial business men of a community 
like this. It is to such I appeal. If you want honest and capable 
men in high places, vote the Anti-Centralization ticket. If you 
want to insure the blessing of a free government to your child- 
ren and your children's children, vote for the grand old prin- 
ciples of the Anti-Centralization party. Vote for that grand 
old Spartan — Alvin T. Flint. (Cheers — G-o-s-l-i-n-g — Gosling 
tiger.) Alvin T. Flint, a name that shall endure when the — 



26 SUNSET. 

the marble's melted and the scronze has brumbled — crumbled 
— bronze — scronze-bronze has crumbled. ( Wiping his brow.) 
But, fellow-citizens, the victory is already assured. We shall 
march triumphantly to the polls, and the Centralization party 
shall experience a defeat overwhelming and decisive beyond 
any recorded in our political history. And on the 5th of next 
November, Alvin T. Flint shall be elected GoA r ernor over Anson 
G. Lathers, and — and the Anti- Centralization party shall be over- 
whelmingly victorious, and — and the defeat of our foes shall be 
disastrous beyond anything in history, and we shall march over 
their fallen bodies to the next presidential election, and on our 
banners shall be inscribed in letters of living light : Victory 
and the grand old principles of the Anti-Centralization party. 
( Wipes his brow and retires — Sands play — cheers — and Q-o-s- 
l-i-n-g — Gosling. — A campaign song might be sung.) 

Jef. F. Fellow-citizens, I have now the pleasure of introduc- 
ing, as the next speaker, one whom you all know, your fellow- 
townsman, Hon. Augustus Babb. 

Babb. {Rising with great importance and weight in his manner.) 
Fellow-citizens and fellow voters of Chicopee Falls : We are 
assembled here to-night on the eve of an election momentous as 
any in the history of the State, I might almost say of the nation. 
On the eve of an election which is to be the death knell of a 
party long tottering to its fall, and which, originally founded upon 
force, is perpetuated only by fraud. I stand here to-night, fel- 
low citizens, conscious that my words may be heralded over this 
broad land from ocean to ocean. I stand here and I arraign the 
Centralization party before the tribunal of the people. I charge 
it with the establishment of a system of venality and corruption 
unexampled in the political history of this or any other nation ; 
with an attempt to crush under the iron heel of despotism the sacred 
rights of state and local self-government ; with an attempt to so 
centralize the power that we may look in the near future for either 
a dictator or a king. The President of the United States to-day 
is surrounded with a pomp and splendor in strongest contrast to 
the simplicity and true grandeur of our forefathers. Clothed 
with a power never contemplated by the founders of the Repub- 
lic, and the undisputed master of a hundred thousand office-hold- 
ing slaves, we must bow in humble submission to his will and 
tremble at his slightest nod. 

A voice. Right you are, Aw-gustus. 

Babb. The nomination of Alvin T. Flint is, I need hardly say, 
the very strongest protest against the corrupt methods of the 
Centralization party. Intimately related, fellow-citizens, as I am 
to Colonel Flint, it would scarcely become me to deliver here to- 
night a panegyric upon his life and character. But I may point 
to the fact that, through the changing politics of forty years, Col. 
Flint has been retained at the head of an important office here in 
your midst. And why, fellow-citizens ? Because his name stood 



SUNSET. 21 

for honesty and efficiency and they dared not remove him. In a 
time when, to be a candidate, is to present oneself a target for 
the basest insinuations, the breath of slander has never dared to 
sully his name or approach those whom he has associated with 
him in his important trust. Yes, fellow-citizens — {Disturbance at 
one .side. Col. Flint pushes through the crowd. Babb slops and 
looks around.) 

C6l. Where is Babb? Where is the villain? Tear him from 
the platform. [Babb walks down the steps to meet him.) Oh, 
there yon are ! 

Babb. Why, Colonel, what is the matter? 

Col. (iStarts to seize him. The;/ hold him back.) Let me go. 
I'll not soil my hands by touching him. Gentlemen, I want you 
all to look at this man — Augustus Babb — a thief. 

Babb. Col. Flint ! Are you mad ? 

Col. Mad ! I wish it were some crazy dream. 

Babb. Colonel Flint, this is — is infamous. 

Col. Infamous ! Infamous ! By God ! it is infamous. Gen- 
tlemen, this man was bound to me by many ties. Relationship, 
friendship, gratitude, all demanded that, if he cared not for his 
own, my honor and my welfare should be sacred to him. For 
years have I trusted him and aided him, and if at times he had 
seemed to think himself a greater man than I who had made him, I 
laughed at his foible, for I thought him sound and faithful at heart. 

Babb. Colonel Flint, I 

Col. Don't speak, sir. Keep off or I'll spurn you with my 
foot. You're the merest straw in the current of my wrath. As 
your crime will publicly disgrace me and mine in my old age so I 
here publicly disgrace you and cast you from me. Is that Car- 
rington I see? 

Arthur. {Coming forward.) It is, sir. Colonel Flint, you have 
made a mistake ; surely this cannot be true. 

Col. And you are a pretty villain to assure me of it. 

Arthur. Sir ! 

Col. You who accept favors at my hands and creep into my 
house like the thief that you are. 

Arthur. Take care. Take care, sir ; you are an old man. 

Col. Oh! (Half springs at him / they hold him.) 

Arthur. Colonel Flint 

Col. Silence, sir. Denials are useless. I know my ground. 
Here ai*e agents of the government who know the whole story. I 
curse you and I wash my hands of you both forever. [Exit. 

Arthur. Is there any one here who knows me and can believe 
this? 

McCorkle. The proof is strong, and we must do our duty. 

Babb. ( Who teas apparently overcome, standing fortcard and 
with great impressiveness.) Gentlemen, before Heaven, I am in- 
nocent of this charge and the country shall know it. 

[Curtain falls.] 



28 SUNSET. 



ACT III. 

Scene I. — Parlor of Colonel Flint' s cottage, overlooking the Hud- 
son, to which he has removed. — Time, day after the election. — 
Late afternoon — Present, Miss Valeria and Daniel. 

Miss V. Oh, you wretched imp of darkness ! Have you no 
feeling for people's misfortunes? Why are you so wrong-headed 
and obstinate? Why do you compel me to talk to you the whole 
living day ? 

Dan. 1 don't compel you to talk. You talks yo'sef. A feller 
ain't got no peace of his life. You're worse'n a hand organ with 
one chune. 

Miss V. Oh, I'll tell the Colonel of this impertinence. Set 
that chair straight. 

Dan. This way ? {Putting it wrong.) 

Miss V. No, you know well enough. 

Dan. This way ? [Putting it wrong again.) 

Miss V. [Rushing at him suddenly and upsetting him and 
placing the chair right.) This way, you imp. Oh, heavens ! He 
will be the death of me yet. ( Throwing up her hands in despair 
and sweeping out.) 

Dan. Miss Valeria's mad. I don't care. A feller's got no 
peace of his life. [Exit.) 

Col. (Enters with Evart.) For heaven's sake ! Evart, keep 
those people away. Tell Daniel to deny me to every one. It is 
useless now, and I have neither the heart nor the strength for it. 
The returns continue to be indecisive you say. 

Evart. Yes, sir. So close, that it is impossible, as yet, to de- 
cide the election. 

Col. I know perfectly well that we shall lose it. 

Evart. You cannot know that, sir. I hope for the best. 
Col. I tell you, I feel it. This w r retcbed business has done 
the whole thing and disgraced me for the rest of my life. Go, 
my boy, and put an end to this miserable uncertainty as soon as 
you can. You have been a great support to me to-day, and I thank 
you a thousand times. I am going out myself, but w T ill soon 
return. 

Evart. Very well, sir. [Exit.) 

Col. Ah, me ! This is a sorry business. But where is my 
little girl. I cannot do without her. She has been the one 
creature left me to love and to care for. Never for one day apart, 
separation is impossible, coldness and severity unendurable. 



SUNSET. 29 

( Valeria enters.) Valeria, where is my child ? Tell her I want 
to see her. 
Miss V. Colonel? 
Col. What is it Valeria ? 

Miss V. Oh, I am so miserable about Augustus. 
Col. Well, what would you have me do ? 
Miss V. You can help him. 

Col. Help him ! If, by turning my hand, I could rid him of 
every consequence of his crime, T would not doit. A low criminal, 
a base ingrate. Valeria, I swear to you if your brother had been 
guilty ol any other crime, any crime of passion — murder if you 
like — every energy I possessed, the last dollar in my pocket, the 
last breath in my body would have been devoted to save him. He 
is my wife's brother, my life long trusted friend. If he had 
fallen under some sudden overwhelming temptation such as the 
best and firmest of men are liable to, do you suppose his suffer- 
ing would not have appealed to me ? Do you think I would have 
deserted him ? Oh, but to be a cool systematic defaulter, a — a 
common thief, sitting here in my house, at my table, receiving 
every mark of favor and confidence from me ! What can I feel 
but the deepest loathing and contempt. Is it not enough, that, 
broken in health, disgraced and defeated, as I know I shall be, I 
bear my own suffering? If I could only forget he had ever ex- 
isted. Come, come, bear up. God knows, it must be hard for 
you. Go now. Send Nellie to me. [Exit Vol. Col. sits down.) 
Henceforth I fear I am a miserable broken old man. Why should 
this come upon me now ? (Buried in thought.) 

Helen. (Enters.) Oh, what can he want? He has scarcely 
spoken to me for days. He was always so kind. Father ! 

Col. (Rising and opening his arms.) Come here, my child. 
Come, come. 

Helen. (Throwing herself in his ar/ns.) Oh, father, how could 
you be so cruel ? You have almost killed me. 

Col. God forgive me. I cannot think my child meant to be 
undutiful. There, there. We have both something to forgive. 
My pride has received a severe blow, but, if I have been cold to 
you, the thought that you were suffering and unhappy has be- 
come each hour more unendurable to me. Ah, if you had only 
trusted to wiser and older heads than yours, my dear! But no 
fault of yours or mine must ever separate us, Nellie ? 
Helen. No, sir ; never. 

Col. How could it be ? Have we not lived together for twenty 
years on a green flowery islet of affection, where you wire like a 
little bird, nestling morning and evening in my rugged old bosom? 
What a happy, pretty child you were and are now, my dear; al- 
ways so pliant and easily governed, and I, — the old ogre, how did I 
behave ? 

Helen. You, sir ? You were all goodness. 



30 SUNSET. 

Col. It is the old story of beauty and the beast. What claws 
I should have grown by this time, but for you ? Ah, child, I need 
you. My life has been one long struggle with temper and pride, 
but my spirit is fast leaving me now. I am going to settle down 
and be a quiet, meek old man, and you are to be my good little 
comforter and make me happy and help me to forget my trouble 

Helen. I will never leave you for a moment, sir. 

Col. Ah, but I mustn't be selfish. I must think what will oe- 
come of my little girl in the future. Don't you think you could 
like Evart just a little ? You see he stands by me in my trouble. 
Let him help you to forget — 

Helen. Oh, sir, say no more. I can refuse you nothing. 

Col. Why, Nellie, if I were seltish enough I would keep you. 
It is your happiness, not mine, I seek. But we will not be separ- 
ated. 

Helen. No, sir ; never. 

Col. No, no. We will not be separated. But I must go, Nel- 
lie. Good-by, my dear, till I return. Good-by, and we will never 
fall out again. [Kisses her.) 

Helen. Never, sir. [Exit Col.) How strange it seems to be 
here. In the old home were the memories and associations of ray 
whole life; and they were many and happy ones till now. I can- 
not bear to give it up to strangers. Can I imagine other voices 
there? Shall those rooms, the home of so much hospitality and 
happiness, which are, to me, almost living presences, be peopled 
by those who care nothing for the past ? It was very hard to leave 
at such time. Oh, the past has been, to me, all happiness, the 
future seems all misery. (Exit.) 

Babb (Enters with DanH). Well, Daniel, how do they all seem ? 

DanH. I never see such a house. The Colonel sets in his chair 
and thinks, and thinks. Miss Nellie, she's all time cryin to her- 
self, and Miss Valeria, instead of being subjued, she's worse'n ever. 
She's all the time throwin' up her hands and sayin', "The Lord 
have mercy on us ! God help us ! Jimminy Cripps ! " and — 

Babb. That'll do, Daniel. I will wait here till the Colonel 
returns. (Exit Dartl). Augustus Babb ! and have you come to 
this ? A man, high in honor, to be called a thief, disgraced in 
public and before the nation, by the man you have loved and 
worked for for twenty years. What matters it that I am inno- 
cent? Who knows it, and how shall I prove it? A thief — 
charged with being a — . By heaven, I will walk down the most 
public street in the town, and should any one, by even a look, say, 
"Babb, you are guilty," I'll choke the lie in his throat. Oh, but 
this is folly. But Colonel Flint shall hear me. By what right 
does he condemn a man unheard ? He shall hear me. 

Arthur (Entering). Why, Mr. Babb ! 

Babb. Carrington ! (They shake hands.) 

Arthur. We are doubtless here on the same errand. But, my 



SUNSET. o 1 

dear sir, whatever success we may have here, and, to speak the 
truth, I expect little, you must not let this crush you. It must 
come right in the end. Dreadful as the charge is, I can feel no 
resentment now toward the rash, headstrong old man. I met him 
yesterday. As he passed, he looked steadfastly and sternly at me, 
with eyes full of a mingled fierceness and sorrow, that must have 
cut me to the heart had I heen guilty. Broken in health and spirit 
and careless in dress, he looked not unlike Lear, a — king of tramps. 

Babb. Carrington, you are young and unknown, but to a pub- 
lic man like myself, brought into great prominence by this cam- 
paign, the blow is doubly severe. Of the countless thousands 
who read of this, how many will investigate and believe in my 
innocence after the excitement of the campaign is over? No, if a 
man is charged with murder he might as well hang. 

Arthur. Oh, that is too gloomy a view of it. We have 
friends who have confidence in us, else we would not be here. 

Valeria. {Entering.) Augustus ! 

Babb. Valeria! (The*/ embrace — Arthur turns away.) 

3Iiss V. Come into my room. (Exeunt.) 

Arthur. (Alone.) I force myself to seem cheerful, but Babb 
is right. The charge, the stain upon the name of an honest man 
can never be quite effaced. Should the proof of innocence be as 
clear as day, can I ever erase from my memory that I was for 
days convicted in the minds of men as a common thief? Great 
God, this is unbearable. And Nellie — Does she believe this? 

(Helen enters, starts with a cry as she sees him and turns as if to 

go back.) 

Arthur. Will you not speak to me ? 

Helen. I must not. I cannot. 

Arthur. Then you will not even tell me what you know to be 
true; that this charge is false. 

Helen. Have 1 not told my father so ? Have I not said so to 
myself a thousand times? 

Arthur. Oh, I knew you would. But, tell me. While you pro- 
tested to yourself that I was innocent, was there not present in 
your mind a thought, a fear, that it, might be true? Tell me that? 

Helen. I will be frank with you. Young and inexperienced as 
I was, stunned and half crazed by a trouble so dreadful and so 
sudden, was it strange that both belief and disbelief seemed alike 
impossible to me. A thousand times I said to myself, he is inno- 
cent; and yet the frightful possibility was ever with me, for had 
not men of stainless character fallen before. But now I tell you 
I know it is not true. I cannot see you and believe it. 

Arthur. Ah, 1 knew you would say so. God bless you; and 
when {his is clearly proven, will your promise still be binding? 
(iShe is s/Irrtt.) Why, great God ! you would not shrink from me 
because I was' foully stained with this charge? 



32 SUNSET. 

Helen. God knows, I do not. Do not reproach me. When I 
heard of this dreadful charge I protested your innocence; I told 
my father how close our friendship was as children, how sincere 
and trustworthy I had always found you, and that it was to you 
and not Evart, as he thought, that I was really engaged. Never 
did I expect to hear such words from his lips. He told me I had 
betrayed him and deceived him, that I was no longer worthy of 
respect. For days he did not speak to me. When I saw him 
daily breaking in mind and body under his suffering, and when 
he called me to him and told me he could be separated from me 
no longer, that he needed me and forgave me, how could I refuse 
him any request? I consented to this engagement with Evart, 
I cared not what became of me, and in my misery thought it 
really did not matter. 

Arthur. I honor and respect your father; he has judged as he 
sees; I have not one word of reproach for you or for him. God 
forgive me, if I forget your unhappiness, but do you understand 
what it is an innocent man suffers, weighted with such a charge 
as this? In my lifetime I have known but one heavy sorrow, one 
that comes sooner or later to us all. Like this in its sudden and 
overwhelming effect, but in all else how unlike. Years ago, on 
one of the loveliest evenings of early summer, wearied and dust- 
stained from a long journey, I approached my father's house. We 
talk of premonitions, but what was there in all that loveliness to 
warn the tired and happy boy that a sudden stroke had fallen upon 
that house and that his father lay there, dead. How vividly I 
remember it all; I seemed to have passed into another world; 
more keenly sensitive than ever to all that surrounded me, I heard 
the birds sing sweetly and wondered how they could sing; how 
could the earth be so beautiful, and yet that bitter, stunning fact 
be true? It is now as it was then, only that was death and this — 
is disgrace. Judge what this misfortune must be to a man who 
has always held before him an ideal self; it sears the mind like a 
red-hot iron on the delicate skin of a child. Perhaps, God knows, 
I may have been virtue proud, something of a Pharisee, even. For 
days have I walked about in the thick stifling haze of evil opinion. 
Oh, God, what rages possess a man ! In one moment we would 
seize the world and crush into a knowledge of our innocence, the 
next, all is blank despair. Why, we are to each other like so many 
untracked islets of humanity whose beauty and brightness are at 
the mercy of every fog and cloud that floats in the air. Oh, how 
strange it is, that a man may look into his breast and see and 
know that which is walled about and impenetrable to every 
other eye. But, as through the dulled senses of the famishing 
man, the faintest sound or sight of water thrills, so, doubly dear, 
now appears to me all the promised and possible happiness of this 
life. Thank God, this blow, unlike the other, is not irrevocable. 
And you — you will — 



SUNSET. 33 

Helen. (Placing her hand on his arm). I — I will never doubt 
you. 

Arthur. (Embracing her impetuously). Never, thank God ! 

Colonel. (Entering, sees her in Arthur's arms). God in heaven! 
What is this ? (Strides quickly forward and forces them violently 
apart.) 

(Carrington recover.* himself and stands looking steadfastly at 
the Col. who glares at him ; Helen, holding the Colonel's arm). 

Arthur. Sir, I am wrong and I know it; I did not intend this; 
I came here to ask suspension of judgment; simple justice from 
you. (The Colonel starts as if he voould strike film; Helen holds 
him desperatelg ; Arthur folds his arms). I shall not defend my- 
self, sir. (Iiabb appears at door of room). 

Col. What ! both in my house ? 

Helen. Go, I implore you; if you love me, go. 

Col. Go, go, lest I add my crime to yours ! ( They move toward 
the door/ Helen lets go her hold upon Iter father, who starts for- 
ward as he sees them about to leave; they face about. Helen runs 
and throws herself before her father.) 

Col. This frail child holds me with a power I cannot resist. 

Helen. Go. For the sake of heaven, go ! ( They leave.) 

Col. (Separating from her.) Are you my daughter ? Are 
you mad — lost? I think I shall never speak to you again ! 

(Col. turns and tcalks across the room, toward door, but sUps 
and turns as Helen, speaks.) 

Helen. Will you not hear me, sir? Oh, sir, I cannot tell you 
how it happened. I met him here by accident. He did not even 
ask for me. How could I refuse to hear him clefeml himself? I 
believed him innocent then, now I know it. He told me what he 
had suffered, what an innocent man, as I now know him to be, 
must suffer, and 

Col. He told you he was innocent, and you, you silly fool, be- 
lieved him. Denials are the cheapest, frailest defense of every 
criminal. (Approaching her.) Child, you must promise me one 
thing, never to speak to this man again. 

Helen. Oh, sir, what would I not do for you ? Why no} wait? 
Suspend your judgment, and if the charge is proven ask of me 
anything. 

Col. I want your promise. Do you hear me ? 

Helen. I have already broken my word. 

Col. I know it. 

Helen. I have already deceived you twice. 

Col. I know you have. 

Helen. Oh, sir, what would I not do for you but this? Oh. 
I cannot, I must not desert an innocent man. 

Col. I will have your promise. (Catching hold of her firmly.) 

Helen. I — I cannot, sir. 

Col. What, you defy me? (Making a crushing motion as he 



34 SUNSET. 

holds her, and then releasing her.) Are you my daughter? Are 
you the child who I thought, never had a will other than mine, 
so soft, yielding, pliant ; who seemed in spirit and body like any 
frail thing I could crush by closing my hand ? It is like a revela- 
tion to me. So you defy me and desert me, and add the last 
straw to my burden. You prefer a criminal to me. Very well, 
I will go. [Turns to leave.) 

Helen. Father ! {Falls down in a faint. Col. turns and 
rushes toward her, and goes down on his knees beside her.) 

Col. Oh, what have I done ? Valeria, Valeria ! Oh God ! 
what a brute I am. 

Miss V. {Enters.) What is the matter ? 

Col. Water, quick. 

Miss V. What is the matter? 

Col. Water, I say. I have killed my child. {Taking her in his 
arms.) In this room. Be quick, I say. 

{Exeunt.) 

Scene II. — Street, near Colonel Flint's Cottage. 

Evart. {Enters.) Curse my luck. Would it have seemed pos- 
sible a year ago that I could have gotten myself into such a 
scrape as this ? Here is this terrible business about the money. I 
am afraid to make the slightest move lest the infernal machine 
explode under my feet. The election is as good as lost, and a de- 
feated candidate is just so much useless lumber. He drops, like 
a spent rocket, from the zenith of notoriety into total obscurity. 
Having lost his influence and, like the Quixotic old fool he is, 
given up almost every dollar lie had, the old gentleman, almost 
embracing me on the street, has within the last few minutes con- 
fided again to my cure, his daughter, who it seems has at last suc- 
cumbed to paternal discipline. The old fellow, having endowed 
me with a hundred virtues I never possessed, and which the devil 
knows I never pretended to, talks to me of love in a cottage — 
{Rodney enters.) Rodney the broker, by everything. 
Hod. Ah, Schuyler, how are you ? 

Evart. How do you do ? Isn't this rather off your path ? 
Rod. Yes, rather. {Looking significantly.) You don't in- 
vest with us any more ? 

Eoart. {Slightly disturbed.) Oh, no. The fact is I came so 
near the bottom of my pile that I thought it best to stop. Visit- 
ing friends, I suppose ? 

Rod. Oh, yes. And by the way I must be off. Good morn- 
ing. 

Evart. Good morning. {Exit Rodney.) I don't like this ! 
{Thinking) There's that offer from South Carolina. {Arthur 
enters.) I'll accept it, resign and leave to-morrow. {Turns to 
go and faces Arthur, starts back and then attempts to pass him). 



SUNSET. :'5 

Arthur. And so, Schuyler, this is your revenge. 

Evart. [Starting back, perceptibly disturbed.) I have noth- 
ing to say to yon. 

Arthur. But I have something to say to you. 

Evart. And I say I will not hear you. 

Arthur. By heaven ! you shall hear me. Am I an innocent or 
guilty man ? 

Evart. How should I know ? I tell you I won't talk to you. 
(Starts to go.) 

Arthur. [Holding him.) But you shall hear me. 

Evart. Let me go, I say. 

Arthur. It was a most excellent device, was it not, to shift this 
villany from your own shoulders. 

Evart. You lie. Let me go, I say. You're mad. 

Arthur. A devilish revenge. 

Evart. (After struggling violently.) Carrington, if you don't 
let me go I'll strike you. 

Arthur. My dear fellow, for impudence and coolness you are a 
marvel. There's not a devil in hell that would not he proud of 
you. 

Evart. Carrington, will you let me go? Then, take that. 
(Striking him violently in the face). 

Arthur. You villain ! (Strikes him, and throws him violently 
to the ground, makes as though he would strike him with his cane, 
but checks himself.) Great God ! I w r ould not be a murderer. 
He seems stunned. (Enter agents). 

Mc. What is this ? 

Arthur. Gentlemen, it is my doing. (Evart comes to and 
agents help him up). 

Mc. How do you feel ? 

Evart. Thanks, I can w r alk. 

Agt. What was the cause of this ? 

Evart. A mere nothing, gentlemen. I tripped and fell. 

Arthur. It is not true. 1 did it. 

Agt. Have you any charge to make against Carrington ? 

Evart. Thanks, no. It is a mere nothing. I am all right now. 
(Exit). 

Arthur. Gentlemen, he wishes to be silent, and for excellent 
reasons. I charged him with this crime. I charged him, and I 
tell you, that he has taken this money, and with devilish ingenuity, 
placed the guilt upon innocent men. For this he struck me and I 
struck him in return. No one understands better than myself that 
my mere denial could and should have little weight with you ; but 
I ask you whether, after days of research, you have found the 
slightest clue to connect either Babb or myself with this money ! 

Agt. That is quite true. We have not. 

Arthur. Now r , gentlemen, if I can prove to you that this man 
has, for years past, been recklessly extravagant, that he is deeply 



36 SUNSET. 

in debt and has been engaged in speculations on the Exchange, of 
which I had long ago heard and have within the last few days 
almost established as facts, will it not be your duty to follow up 
these clues ? 

Gen. K. I can assure you we have not been idle. 

Mc. Mr. Carrington, I do not doubt that these are the exact 
facts in the case. Much of what you say we know to be true from 
actual investigation. Before mentioning it, however, we wished 
to make a complete case. 

Arthur. There is one incident that is convincing to me, what- 
ever its value as evidence may be. The morning that you first 
visited the Colonel's office, I caught this man, Schuyler, holding 
the Colonel's negro boy, Daniel, by the throat. Gentlemen, if ever 
there was murder in a man's eye, it was in his at that moment. 
He made some lame excuse, which,of course, I did not in the least be- 
lieve at the time, little thinking, however, what a crime it covered. 
So thoroughly frightened was the boy that it was only by repeated 
efforts that I at last succeeded in getting him to tell the real facts. 
To be brief, he by accident saw Schuyler make entries in books at 
both Babb's desk and mine, and afterwards take a package of 
money from the safe. This easily explains the rough usage which 
I saw. The boy will corroborate what I tell you. 

Gen. K. Mr. Carrington, this is highly important and simpli- 
fies the case very much. 

Mc. Schuyler's broker, with whom we have communicated, 
has telegraphed that he would be glad to give any information he 
possessed and would either send or bring it in person to-day. 

Rod. (Enters). Why, Carrington, I am very glad to see you. 

Arthur. Rodney! I scarcely knew you. 

Mr. This is Mr. Rodney ? 

Rod. It is. 

Mc. My name is McCorkle and this is Gen. Ketchum of the 
Department. You wish to see us? 

Rod. I have just called at your hotel. 

Mc. Mr. Carrington, Mr. Rodney is the gentleman through 
whom Schuyler invested. 

Arthur. Indeed! 

Rod. It is a fact, and it gives me great pleasure to help an old 
school fellow. Carrington, though we were never intimate, for I 
was much the older of the two, I have always remembered you 
and thought of you with pleasure. When I first heard of this 
business I was completely set back. I could not think that I had 
been so poor a judge of human nature. When these gentlemen 
called at my office and left a note (I was away at the time), asking 
for information as to Schuyler's transactions with me, the whole 
thing became as clear as a whistle, and you may believe I was 
only too glad to throw light upon such an infernal piece of rascal- 
ity. Gentlemen, will you be kind enough to look at this state- 



SUNSET. 3*7 

ment and see if it will help you V {Agents look over paper. To 
Arthur) — I never liked the man and 1 know him well. I always 
regard character as a kind of atmosphere that a man carries about 
him, and I detect rascals rather by the absence than the presence 
of particular qualities. There was always something indefinite 
and uncertain about Schuyler. 

Gen. K. The very thing we wanted, Mr. Rodney. The case is 
a perfect one. 

Mc. Come, Mr. Carrington, we will go and get Babb and set- 
tle this matter between you and the Colonel at once. 

Arthur. Very well, gentlemen. Rodney, will you go along? 
{Exeunt.) 

Scene III. — Flint's Parlor. {Enter Colonel, supporting his 
daughter). 

Col. How is my little girl now ? Quite strong ? 

Helen. Quite strong, sir, thank you. 

Col. Oh, my darling, how you frightened me. {Kissing 
her.) If anything had happened to you. No, no, we won't think 
of it. Can you ever forgive me? 

Helen. Forgive, sir ? 

Col. Nellie, as I stood by your bed, and held this little cold 
hand in mine, as I watched the returning consciousness in this dear 
face, all the lite that we had lived together, came up before me. 
I remembered how unfailingly dutiful you were; so even in tem- 
per, so sunny in disposition, so thoughtful of my every wish, that 
even an ill-natured and gouty old man could not find a cross word 
to say. It was as though our lives had been set to music and we 
had now, for the first time, struck a harsh and discordant note. 
I should have remembered, my dear, that inexperience is no crime, 
that if your heart was touched and your head deceived by one 
unworthy of you, it was but the fault of youth and rashness. 

Helen. Sir, if I was to you what a daughter should be, it 
was because you have ever been to me all kindness. 

Col. Well, then, my dear, isn't it a pity we should differ 
when we need each other so much ? 1 will never again ask you 
to be bound by any promise. Henceforth, what my daughter 
does shall be dictated by her own heart and her love for her 
father. 

Helen. I will do anything to make you happy, sir. If it 
will add to your peace of mind to see me married, I am ready, at 
any time, to fulfill my engagement with Evart Schuyler. 

Col. You will never regret it, my dear. 

Helen. It shall be as you wish. 

Col. And we will never fall out again, Nellie ? 

Helen. Never, sir. 

Col. We said that before, didn't we ? But we mean it now. 
The idea of our quarreling. It's like a tight between an elephant 



38 SUNSET. 

and a humming bird. {Evart enters.) Well, my boy, what 
news? 

Eoart. More and more unfavorable, sir, but nothing deci- 
sive. 

{Boy enters with message, hands to Colonel who hands it to 
Evart.) 

Col. Open it, Evart. 

Evart. { Opens and reads.) The latest returns leave no further 
hope. The election is undoubtedly lost. [After a silence.) I need 
not tell you, Colonel Flint, how sincerely, for your sake, I regret 
this news. 

Col. I thank you, Evart. It is useless to complain now of a 
defeat which I have long expected. If it were only my personal 
ambition that was at stake, the blow would be easily borne. But 
I need not say how deeply I feel the defeat of my party by my 
own folly and the crime of my friends. I regret it for your 
sake as well as my daughter's. I had intended by every proper 
means in my power to push your fortune and to aid you in gain- 
ing the posititiou to which your talents entitled you. This is now 
impossible. But youth, health and talents such as yours easily 
win success, and I feel that I place my daughter's future in safe 
hands. With my influence destroyed and what little fortune I 
had, now gone, I can offer you in this world, my boy, nothing 
but my gratitude and affection, and leave you afterward only the 
memory of an old man's blessing. 

Eoart. Colonel Flint, I hope you will not think me insensible 
to your kindness or unworthy of your confidence in me, but I feel 
that, to accept a hand with which the heart is not given, means 
only unhappiness for the future. Your daughter, I am sure, does 
not desire this. 

Col. What ! what do you mean ? 

Evart. Colonel Flint, within the last few weeks I have received 
a business offer from relatives in the South. I have decided, with 
great regret, to resign my position here and accept the one offered 
me by my friends. I will not soon forget. — 

Col. What! You too? I shall lose my faith in human nature. 
Forget! But you do forget, sir. You forget everything but your 
own interest. You forget that I have opened my house to you, that 
I have taken you into my confidence, have placed you in my office, 
and that my election meant success and fortune for you. You for- 
get that I have treated you more like a son than a person who two 
years ago was a total stranger to me. Your action is an insult to 
my daughter and an unmanly desertion of me in my misfortune. 
In one minute, sir, my esteem for you has fallen to zero. 

Evart. Colonel Flint — 

Col. No slickness of tongue can serve you. Go ! Go ! Carry 
your brilliant talents and your pinchbeck virtues to a better mar- 
ket. I have at least to thank my misfortune for revealing to 
me your true character. (/Sits down overcome). 



SUNSET. 39 

Helen. Father, he is not worth a single regret. He has made 
every effort to appear to you what you thought him, hut with me 
he has shown himself in his true colors. Of late, I had almost 
believed I had misjudged and that there was more good in him 
than 1 thought. But I was right. Yes, sir, you may go and you 
shall be discharged, like other faithful servants, with a character. 
Of your vanity and selfishness I say nothing. They speak for 
themselves. You have wit, tact and intelligence all focussed upon 
one point, your own self-interest. As to morality — T think you 
have none at all. In judging of character I am a barometer 
and when near you the moral atmosphere is dense indeed. 
Mart. Col. Flint- 
Col. (Rising indignant y.) Go, sir. Go ! Go ! and take with 
you my profoundest contempt. 

Mc. (Entering followed by General Ketchum, Babb, and Car- 
rington. Evart turns to leave by another door.) 
Col. One moment, Mr. Schuyler. 

Evart. I will see you again. (Still going.) Busin essof great 
importance — 

Mc. Stop, sir. (Crossing to him.) You can have no business 
more important than mine. 

Evart. (Alarmed.) What do you mean? 
Mc. You will know shortly. 

Col. What does this mean ? Why do you bring those men 
here ? 

Mc. Patience, Colonel. Patience for a moment. A dreadful 
mistake has been made. Mr. Babb and Mr. Carrington are in- 
nocent. This (laying his hand on Schuyler's shoulder) is the 
true culprit. 

Col. What ! What do you tell me ? Augustus — Carrington 
— innocent ; and — and Schuyler — (looking from one to the 
other.) Be careful, gentlemen, be careful. Augustus — inno- 
cent — and this man — For God's sake ! Don't mislead me ? 

Mc. Colonel Flint, you will do us the justiee to remember that 
we did our best to prevent your public denunciation of these gen- 
tlemen, although we believed the evidence sufficient. We soon 
found, however, that there was not the slightest trace of their 
having possessed or spent such a sum. Having heard incident- 
ally that Schuyler had speculated and lost money iu stocks, we 
investigated the matter. We found not only this to be true but 
also, that his record had been bad for years. Heavily in debt, a 
spendthrift and a gambler, he was the very man to have done 
this thing. 

Col. God help me. My little Nellie. (Embracing her.) 
Mc. Every step further confirmed the suspicion. The books 
of Mr. Rodney, the broker, show that within a few days after the 
date of each deficit, Schuyler bought largely of stocks. In addi- 
tion to this, your boy, Daniel, on the morning of our arrival at 



40 SUNSET. 

your office, saw him make alterations in the books of these gen- 
tlemen, and afterward take a large sum of money from the 
safe. 

Col. Evart Schuyler, is this true ? 

Evart. Col. Flint- 
Co/. Is it true, man ? Is it true ? 

Evart. If I did, I was driven to it. 

Col. Driven to it ? Driven to what ? Driven in cold blood to 
assassinate the characters of men who had never done you harm? 
Driven to betray the confidence of a blind old man, to bring mis- 
fortune and disgrace on him and his helpless child in his old age ? 
Driven ! Yes, driven by the fiend from hell that possessed you. 
It is you, then, that I have trusted and caressed. It is tor you, 
then, rash fool that I was — I have branded and cursed my dearest 
friends. Great God ! It is to you that 1 would have given my 
daughter, my child, whose welfare was dearer to me than my own 
life. Oh! [Starts toward him). If there is left in me one spark 
of that fire from heaven or hell, let ine with one blow both judge 
and execute your guilty — No, no, no. (Turning away). Take 
him away. I have judged and cursed too many. (Suddenly turn- 
ing). Go! Go to your cell, and cower, like a whipped hound, 
under the lash of God Almighty's justice. Oh! (Starts toward 
him and checks himself). Take him away, gentlemen. For God's 
sake ! Take him away. (Agents lead Schuyler out. Col. sinks down 
in chair and after a moment bows his head on the arm and sobs, 
presently raising it.) Oh, rash, headstrong, brutal, blind old man. 
Like any mad beast wounding alike friend and foe. It is to such 
a man, stained with every vice, capable of every crime, I would 
have given my daughter, my little Nellie. For such a man have 
I wounded, wounded beyond reparation, my best friends. Oh ! I 
could do any mad thing to myself. (Rising). Augustus, my dear, 
dear friend, you can never forgive me, but before Heaven, I would 
rather have torn every limb from my body than used you so. 

Babb. Col. with all my heart I do forgive you. I honor and 
respect you not one whit less because you have been misled and 
deceived. 

Col. And you, Arthur Carrington, will you — can you forgive 
a foolish, rash old man. 

Arthur. Sir, I have sympathized too deeply with your mis- 
fortunes to remember now a few rash words. 

Col. You are too forgiving. I do not deserve it. I was rash 
— criminally rash. 

Arthur. If you will let me be a son to you, I will try to show 
that my words do not come from the lips, but are as sincere and 
deep as my affection for your daughter. 

Col. If Nellie says so. Hereafter, Nellie shall choose all her 
own husbands. (Arthur goes to Hd' j u.) 

Helen. See, father, what a beautiful sunset. 



SUNSET. 41 

Col. It is a beautiful sunset, my dear. May it truly fore- 
shadow the evening of my life. I have lived a long life, my 
children ; I have many faults. But violent, headstrong, preju- 
diced, wickedly rash, as I have too often been, I have never will- 
ingly injured a true and honest man. In the past few weeks I 
have lost much and suffered much, but am not unhappy, for have 
I not regained my best friends and my faith in human nature ? 
Let us live together happily, my children, and may peace ami 
contentment abide with us, for, never again, as God shall help me, 
will I judge or curse a son of Adam. [Curtain falls.) 



THE END. 



LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 



014 212 110 4 § 



